Solace
by Thalia Kendall
Summary: Written for a challenge, this is a story of war, pain and comfort... and love that might have been present all along. Roger Davies-Cho Chang one-shot.


A/N: Dedicated to Dove, Sky, Lyta and Amy, the four biggest R/C shippers I know. Written for the Scribbulus Virgin challenge.

Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I really DON'T own Roger Davies.

* * *

Their roles were oddly reversed now.   
  
He had been the boy with the mischievous bright blue eyes who had dared her to a race on brooms when he was seven and she was six. She had been the winner by a hairbreadth, but she also managed to scrape her elbow on the bark of the tree that had been decided as the end point of their track, and he, looking horribly awkward and uncomfortable with her tears, had fished a wrinkled but clean handkerchief out of his pocket to use as a bandage. He had looked so scared-- even more than she was-- at the sight of her bleeding that she'd stopped crying and let him pat her head and admit a bit huffily that she DID win.  
  
It had been two months ago that the young Auror had been carried in by his comrades, unconscious and bleeding, his dark hair matted to his forehead, and she had felt a strange ache in her chest when she had recognized the features under the dirt and the blood.  
  
They hadn't spoken in years, not through anyone's _fault_, exactly, but she had felt her vision blurring slightly as she had wrapped gauze soaked in medicinal potions around his wounds, and she was fairly sure that the sting in her eyes wasn't just the result of working twelve hours in a dimly lit tent.  
  
She watched him sleep now, and wondered if he dreamed of happier times and broom races and the laughter of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team as he swung her into the air in a show of exuberant joy after a Quidditch victory.  
  
She was used to sleeping in a chair with a cushioning charm; a chair was easier to get out of, and she didn't fall into such a deep sleep that she couldn't hear the soft groans or whispers for help which came every night from someone or another.

* * *

It was quite dark in the tent when he awoke, feeling as though he had lead in his veins instead of blood, and the only source of light came from a small lamp on the nightstand. He twisted, wincing at the pain in his back, and saw a small, huddled figure curled up on the chair next to his cot.  
  
The first thing he could make out was dark hair, gleaming like ebony in the weak, warm light, a few wisps escaping from a sensible bun to frame a feminine face. A young woman, probably about twenty years of age, with exotic Oriental features and small hands resting in her lap, one of them still curled around a roll of gauze. There was something familiar about her... her hands and lips and the eyes that remained closed in repose, and he gingerly tried to raise himself up into a sitting position to have a closer look.  
  
He had just about succeeded in sitting up when those arresting almond-shaped brown eyes snapped open, and he was able to place her.  
  
"Cho?" Her name came out as a hoarse groan even as she gasped.  
  
"You're awake!" She was on her feet in an instant, reaching out a hand to support his back even as the other dropped the roll of gauze on the nightstand before shifting his pillows to accomodate his new position. The blanket that had been covering his torso slipped down to his waist, and he felt a bit exposed under her scrutiny. Surely just because she'd not seen him less than fully-dressed since their schooldays and sharing a changing room, and even then, she moved to a separate stall to change.   
  
She wasn't quite as affected, though, because she leaned closer, a whispered _Accio_ sending a tiny vial of healing potion into her hand. "Can you turn over, Roger? I need to treat your wound."  
  
It was with great effort, and her small hands supporting his back, and then he was lying on his stomach as she dabbed a disinfectant potion into the healing wound on his back. It stung for a moment, the icy-feeling liquid taking effect, and then she was putting fresh gauze on the wound, one hand soothingly rubbing down his spine. He fancied that he could still feel the slight roughness in her fingers from years of gripping the wood of a broomstick.  
  
He fell asleep again, not sure if it was all a dream, to the lulling sensation of her fingers brushing his hair out of his eyes.

* * *

She was still there the next morning, though. And when he woke up again, she was smiling.   
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
"Like that one game we had against Slytherin when Bole decided to ram me," he replied ruefully. "What am I doing here?"  
  
"Healing," she told him softly. "You were knocked out, you know. And that was after another Death Eater stabbed you." She gave a slightly shaky sigh. "You can't go back to active duty yet, but..."  
  
"But what?" He leaned forward, even as she did, and when she spoke, her face was so close that he could feel her breath on his skin.   
  
"I'm glad you're all right."

* * *

  
  
He felt as weak as a newborn sometimes, because despite the charms and spells used, his muscles and joints were sore from disuse, and when he ambitiously tried to stand up, he had to bite his lip to prevent a cry of pain. She'd been at his side in an instant, chiding him in that almost childish way of hers, and carefully easing him back onto his bed, one arm around his waist.   
  
There was a time in the past when he could lift her like she was made of silk and feathers, and he was inexplicably brought back to a time in her second year, when he had caught her after she'd tumbled from her broom during the game against Slytherin.   
  
It had been a week now, that he had remained in his compartment in the charmed medic's tent. She visited every day, stopping in to bring his meals, and then later to check his wound and talk. At first, Roger didn't think that she had changed much since their fond, friendly farewell at the end of his seventh year.  
  
She had the same delicate features as before... with a bit more solemnity behind the smiles. She no longer wore her hair in braids, but it was the same smooth, glossy black. She moved quickly but deliberately, and her fingers were gentle. "I've done this for a year now," she told him softly one night as she handed him a glass of water. She had smiled when she said it, but her eyes weren't filled with girlish cheer.  
  
He could stand now, or even walk. His wound was now a scar on the skin, a line of white on slightly darker skin. He no longer blushed when she touched him, and he had come to expect her in, every evening, at six o'clock by the pocketwatch that she had dug out of his torn, wrinkled robes. She ate with him and talked about her day, and he listened and watched the play of waning sunlight on her dark hair. It was the most beautiful thing he saw each day-- and beauty came rare these days.  
  
One evening, she came in in tears... tears that she tried to hide. She smiled when she walked in with his meal-- a sandwich of brown bread and melted cheese and ham. But he knew better and stood and took the tray out of her hands, setting it down on the nightstand next to his watch before raising a hand to her shoulder. "What happened?"  
  
Between a slightly incoherent ramble of "I should be used to it"s and "Don't worry about me"s, came a story of a girl younger than her carried in by a stricken boy of no more than eighteen, and the girl was already gone when she'd been taken into the tent.   
  
"He loved her," she whispered dejectedly into Roger's bare shoulder, perhaps a breach of etiquette but he didn't mind, and they were more than that. "He didn't say so, but I knew. He wanted me to save her."  
  
"There was nothing you could've done, Cho," he said somberly, as his fingers brushed through her smooth dark hair, the loosened strands cascading down from the neat bun. He'd seen death as well... at least as much as she had, and there had often not even been anyone to try to save the fallen. "It's not your fault, you know."  
  
And their roles were reversed again, and it was like before, when he had bandaged her elbow with a wrinkly handkerchief to make her stop crying, because he was holding her and comforting her and he was the strong one. "I know," she mumbled against his neck, half sitting on the cot, half in his lap. "I'll get a hold of myself... it was just the look in his eyes..."  
  
And then she HAD gotten a hold of herself, wiping her tears away with a determined hand and making a vague remark about how his meal was getting cold. He humoured her and ate the sandwich and watched as she left to check on someone else, and he felt an odd feeling of desolation.   
  
He used to just be afraid, in the leery way of any typical boy, of her tears.  
  
When she returned, it was very late, and he was sleeping peacefully in his cot. The raid that had brought in the influx of injured was over, but things had yet to settle down completely. She washed her hands as quickly as she could and hung up the protective smock that she always wore over her robes.   
  
It would make more sense for her to stay with some of the newer patients through the night rather than an almost-healed Auror, but she was too tired to think of these things, perhaps.  
  
She curled up in the chair by his bed and closed her eyes.

* * *

  
  
They awoke in the middle of the night to the sounds of commotion outside, and a quick peek revealed a few wizards on patrol in a skirmish with masked figures at the entrance of the camp. Cho's eyes went wide even as she felt his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.   
  
"I'll protect you," his voice sounded softly by her ear, and she shook her head even as she twisted around to face him, barely able to make out his features in the darkness.   
  
"I'm not afraid, not really," she murmured as her fingers found purchase on his forearms. "And you're not yet completely well."  
  
"But I want to protect you just in case..." he murmured, and he pulled her closer to him almost involuntarily.   
  
"And I want to see you safe and strong," she argued, pushing him towards the bed.   
  
She made him lie down and she sat down on the bed next to him, both of them shivering a bit at the sounds of curses in the distance, and his hands curved around her waist to pull her close, and she held onto him. There came a roar of _Crucio_ and she froze...  
  
And perhaps he wanted to comfort her, or perhaps he just didn't want her to hear the same sort of inhuman screams that he recalled hearing, for at that exact moment, he sealed his lips over hers, his arms encasing her trembling form and holding her close. She gasped against his mouth and he tangled his fingers through her cool, silky hair.  
  
And then she was kissing him back, and he was fairly sure that she was blushing now as her fingers touched his bare skin, even though it was too dark to see for sure.  
  
Her movements became quicker when the sounds of fighting came closer. Even as her hands moved towards the fastenings on her robes to help his own fingers pull them apart, she murmured something vague, suspiciously like "I don't want to die a virgin", against his parted lips, and he concentrated on kissing her bare skin as it was exposed. Their movements were a bit clumsy, but he held her close the whole time, and a part of him wished that they weren't in a tent, and that the world was a different one in which he could court her like she deserved.  
  
She muffled a scream against his shoulder when she spilled over the edge, her hair flying wantonly about them, smelling like jasmine and a hint of sweat, and he stiffened a moment later, groaning her name against her neck. And then for several minutes, neither of them knew anything but the feeling of pounding hearts and adrenaline, much like the end of a race, and when she opened her eyes and listened for sounds of battle, she heard nothing but silence.  
  
The next morning came a report of a brace of Death Eaters captured as they tried to infiltrate the camp... and a declaration from the head mediwizard that Roger would be able to return to active duty.   
  
His colleagues came by with a new uniform for him, and she watched him silently as he dressed, standing tall and proud with his back to her, doing up the buttons on his robes. Feeling a lump in her throat, she escorted him to the exit of the camp and gazed up into solemn bright blue eyes.  
  
"I'll be back," he promised her, and she decided that she wouldn't hold him to it.  
  
But then, in the bright light of day, he pulled her abruptly into his arms and kissed her lips like a lover, and she clung to him for a moment before pulling away and giving him a smile, her eyes glistening under dark eyelashes.  
  
She wouldn't hold him to that promise, perhaps, but she would hope for a happy ending anyway.


End file.
